


A synonym for this

by Crazyamoeba



Series: shadows hanging on dust [2]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: (non-sexual), Abusive Relationships, Cults, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Wetting, because it's Jacob and Staci, fear of dogs, generally the start of a very bad relationship, hence the warnings about dogs, nothing 'overt' here but again this is a general warning tag for this relationship, the Judges will be a fairly large focal point in future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyamoeba/pseuds/Crazyamoeba
Summary: If Staci is a shadow now, it must be a shadow of a different colour, because he has never felt so seen.And Jacob Seed is the one bearing witness to it all.





	A synonym for this

Staci is a shadow now.

Staci had been skinny and wrong as a kid. Skinny and weak and just not right. Crying, always crying. Not how a man should be.  
  
_That boy just ain't right._  
  
He had never cried at work. Afraid that one drop would rust the badge, and wasn't that just part of the problem? Afraid. Always afraid.  
  
Wondering just how deep his fear runs, just how far it goes. Afraid that perhaps it runs all the way through him, permeates him, is him. Only him.

_Only you._

But despite it all, he had never cried in front of his colleagues, his boss. And yet they had always looked at him with the same diagonal in their eyes. The same regard that was just tipped over the balancing point of normal. The same, nagging, near-invisible hangnail that had been snagging in people's regard for him, reflected back from his teachers' and classmates' gazes. His parents' eyes, revived and revitalised, new life breathed into them from behind the Sheriff's lenses.

Which was unfair, because he _hadn't_ shown them any tears. He hadn't. And it felt cosmically unfair that they could still all see. See right through him to the sissy, soft child that stood behind him. Only him. Only that child, never Staci. Only weakness.

Jacob never seemed to mind how much he cried.

He had never seen Staci the child. Because he already has Staci the man at his back at all times of the day. At his side. His shadow.

At his feet. Crying, snivelling there in all his gangly, adult glory.

And yet. He had never seemed to mind, even from the start, which seems to Staci to have happened in another world entirely.

There had never been any diagonal in Jacob's eyes when they fell on him, and this time Staci was the one hurtling off the edge of the balancing point.

 

***

Staci's memory of those hours, weeks – time is an inconsequential sound to him, pouring meaninglessly through his ears because nobody is coming to save him, Jacob is the only one who has come for Staci Pratt and that is where the story ends

His memory of that time when his whole world had been sliced to pieces by failing helicopter blades – _he had told Sheriff no, he had told him he wouldn't do it! -_ are heavy and elusive.

Whenever he tries to do more than side-eye their murky surface, inspect his wavering and broken reflection in their waters, they slip through his hands like blanket weed. Sink further into stagnant waters that Staci doesn't want to dive into. There might be heavy, scarred hands waiting there to pull him under and out of broken doors and shattered blades and fraying safety belts -

But what he does remember, is the whisper of Jacob Seed, preceding the man by hours. Instructions and speculation and adulation leading the way for him like dark and cloying smoke dancing through the air.

Hands, heavy and controlled on his arms, moving his limbs according to some Greater Plan.

“ _Take him to the Grandview, Jacob wants him in the Chair yesterday.”_

Straps tightening around his arms, chest, feet – fastening closely around his bruised flesh until his body could almost convince the rest of him that this was all simply a forest-fire daydream, that he was back, strapped into the safety harness of his bird and just about to get fired for refusing to land in Joseph Seed's home and fuck with a man who is Not To Be Fucked With.

The buckles they tightened could almost make him believe that Staci Pratt had saved the day, that they had all gone home and lived happily ever after, even with a black mark on his record – he could live with that if it meant that he got to _live with that_ and quit fucking law enforcement forever and become a private helicopter pilot like he had always wanted and -

“ _Leave him where he is. Jacob wants to do the rest.”_

_Jacob, Jacob, Jacob._

 

Staci had seen him once.

He had known _of_ Jacob, because who in Hope County didn't know of the fucking Seed family? But they kept mostly to themselves, and their outings into the heart of town were few and far between.

If you wanted an Audience, you had to Seek it out. Ask, and it will be given to you.

Unless you had something that they wanted. Then, as John himself was so fond of saying, with a charming grin and brimstone sparkling in his eyes, _“I'm not really asking.”_

_Don't worry, you won't have to do a thing. We'll come for you._

What he hadn't expected was to see Jacob Seed walking the perimeter of just one more newly-vacated farm at John's side, strolling unhurriedly through the dappled light of day, with his rifle ever-present by his side as though this had always been The Way of Things.

Staci wasn't sure why it had startled him so, to see a man of flesh and blood walk the earth and breathe the thin mountain air.

But the sight of Jacob Seed – and just like every other member of that fucking family, there was no doubt that it was Him – walking loosely next to John, head cocked ever so slightly down and to the side to listen carefully to the words that fought over themselves to be free from the younger man's mouth.

His face had been set and patient as his brother had gesticulated wildly, and the sight had seeped inside Staci's skin and itched and burned like nettle rash for the rest of that day.

Staci can still recall Jacob's considered stride, lagging behind John only momentarily to deftly kick a fallen apple up and over in the direction of his brother.  
Could still remember the almost-there smile as he clapped John on the shoulder, his hand lingering there to smooth ruffled feathers and sounds of indignation as he propelled them both forwards.  
  
Staci can also remember the whispers about Jacob and the fires of his salvation. His loyal soldiers; his Chosen and his Judges. His Blessing of Purpose to those who were unworthy of cleansing.

Everyone had purpose. Everyone was welcome.  
  
_You belong here._  
  
_Meat._  
  
But most of all he remembers how little he had truly appreciated his ability to shudder off the pall that the brothers Seed had draped over him, duck into his cruiser and drive away.

_Away, away, away._

Something that a Voice deep inside of him – is this what Joseph Seed heard at all hours of the day? - told him he would never be able to attain.

Away.

A way. Any way out.

 

The cold-water shock of Jacob Seed's eyes washed over Staci in the Chair, and that prospect of  _away_ suddenly seemed to twinkle further and further out of reach.

Like Staci was sinking, drowning, gazing up at the last of the sunlight as it tried to blink through the deepening distance of the water.

His head had been cottony, warm and soft and suffocating him. The sound of crinkling clothes filtered through it all slowly. Staci raised his eyes to see Jacob Seed taking shape in front of him, kneeling before him. Observing steadily, and it was like waking up to drowning.

Jacob's gaze was fixed on his swollen, sticky face, and Staci belched out a wretched, shameful sound, bleating and pathetic as he tried to turn away, any other way than those eyes.

All his body could manage was to flop impotently, sagging in the straps that held him like a dying fish.

Jacob made a small, low sound of censure and reached out, tipped Staci's head back front and centre with as little effort as breathing, and resumed his scrutiny. Staci wanted to die when the same disgusting, pleading sound leaked from him.

His fingers clenched and he let his head loll as much as it could, allowed his eyes to roll backwards, chasing that same cottony ache of concussion that he had so cursed moments before. He wanted it back. He wanted it to shield him from the eyes that so carefully took in every inch of him.

But with every moment that they rest on him, he feels the bone-deep chill of clarity washing away his confusion, and he can feel more of himself melt and fall away.

With faint hysteria, Staci thought of the county fairs he attended as a kid. One year, he had dropped his cotton candy in the mountain-fed stream. Had watched it disappear, softly and suddenly. Tears had started in his eyes before he had been aware of his father's heavy gaze on him. He had walked away and left the pink nothing behind.

Jacob's hand came to the side of Staci's face, and he grunted wetly, lips loose and beyond his control as saliva trickled down his chin, and he tried to close his eyes, seeking once more that cotton pink nothingness, praying there was something still left there to shield him.

“No,” the word was soft and low, musing almost, as Jacob tipped his head forward once more. Scrutinising, examining. Turning his head this way and that, fingers creeping over his skull briefly, feeling for damage done.

“Not a lot of point to that. We both know you're awake now, Deputy Pratt. If you didn't die in that crash, there's no going back.”

  
Staci screws his eyes shut, wonders what he thinks he's going to gain.

“That was your one chance, and you were marked for salvation.” A snort, soft and rueful when Staci's eyes clench tighter. “And I'm afraid there's just no refusing a gift of that sort, Peaches.”

Jacob's words rasp, softly and darkly across the air, and Staci wishes desperately that he could scream, spit at Jacob, bang his head hard enough to end it all – anything to deny those almost gentle syllables curling into his ears.

It was only when the large, heavy hand that seemed to envelop one entire side of his head, began to tremble and spasm, that Staci realised that he was moving.

Convulsing, heaving and retching in his seat. Making sounds.

Horrible, gutteral whimpering sounds like a sick and snivelling child.

No. The large fingers that briefly, roughly patted his face, made him aware of the sticky, salty mess there. Shamefully aware that he had been passively allowing tears and mucus to collect in and around his mouth ever since Jacob had set eyes on him.

Not like a child. Like a dog. Whining and whimpering and completely without Pride.

  
And then, for a handful of seconds that denial stretches to hours, he feels warmth seep between his legs. Leaking down his thighs and pooling in his shoes. Hears the beaded trickle of liquid on floorboards, and almost laughs, because why not?

He's already allowed Jacob Seed to See into himself, to see what he lacks and what he never will be again, so what's this? What should this mean to him?

Except the laugh comes out on a soaking, thickened moan, and he wants to cringe away from the utter misery he hears there. The humiliation that he had just told himself wouldn't touch him.  
  
“Shh, that's alright.”

Jacob's voice is quiet and light, and everything Staci wouldn't have even guessed not to expect.

Jacob's face is still and serious, the eyes the only part of him to move as they lower to take in Staci's predicament with nothing more than acknowledgement.

“It happens sometimes. The mind is a powerful thing.”

The hand on Staci's face moves downwards, pats his thigh, hard and rough. Bracing, and it makes Staci whine high in his throat as Jacob reaches down to his shoes.

He whines, and doesn't stop whining – asking for what, he doesn't even have the capacity to guess, but the one certainty in his mind is _no, no, no, no –_ when Jacob's hands go to work untying the laces on his sodden boots.

 _Standard issue Hope County Police Department equipment,_ his brain provides hysterically.

Keeps up the shameless whinging after Jacob has removed his boots and continues to put his hands on Staci's socks.

And for some reason Staci feels something inside him fly apart and dissolve entirely, because he wants to fucking die when he sees his socks. He hadn't even remembered that this morning had taken place, had been real and his life just a few scant hours ago, let alone which socks he had put on. So fucking inconsequential, that stupid Staci of hours and lifetimes ago.

Except now, for no particular reason, it seems like the most horrifyingly important, intimate detail for Jacob Seed to bear witness to.

One sock is orange with little fucking Sonic the Hedgehog faces, the other white with little Cheeseburger the bear faces, _definitely not standard issue._

Staci hears the sound of his own urine being poured from his shoes and onto the floorboards below, and he lets his eyes fall closed.

Growls from his throat, brought low and subhuman for just a moment as he struggles not to meet Jacob's eyes.

  
“The body is a powerful tool, when used correctly.” Jacob's tone is low and conversational, and almost drowns out the sound of Staci's piss dripping on the floor, which he is almost grateful for.

He drags his eyes open entirely unbidden, because although Jacob's voice is surprisingly light and nonchalant and not what Staci conjours to mind when he thinks of the word 'compelling', he finds that it catches on to some rip inside of him and pulls, pulls like a fucking fishhook and he can't turn away anymore.

  
“When you can take control of your own mind, it will steer your body correctly.”

It sounds like a solemn promise as large hands proceed to peel Staci's stupid, novelty, piss-soaked socks from his feet, his eyes considering them calmly as they did everything else.

There is even a small puff of breath that may have been gently snorted laughter on anyone else, and oddly it is this small detail that is more painfully humiliating to him than the fact that a grown man is holding his urine-soaked socks in his hands, because Staci can't fucking control himself.

  
“Fear is a powerful thing.” That calm, low voice seeps through him, and Jacob is still holding those fucking socks, hasn't put them down, and Staci is still crying uncontrollably.

Staci really wishes he'd let go of his fucking socks.

Instead, Jacob considers them, utterly unconcerned by the piss that covers his hands, and looks up at Staci – and the fact that there is a small and distant pinprick of something in him that might be gratitude at the lack of Judgement in those eyes -

Staci swallows, instantly chokes on the snot and tears.

Jacob's eyes sharpen, search intently through the dark void of Staci's pupils, as if he has heard the tearing flesh of the pinprick inside Staci, has smelt the tiny, beading blood it has spilt. Looking for the wound, looking for the opening.

Looking for the way inside.

And Staci would piss himself all over again if there was anything left, when Jacob's cracked and dried lips curve into a small smile. When his eyes stop their roving and settle.

Staci stills, body rigid with the anticipation of something great and terrible. His skin feels tight. As though fingers that have been tracing every fold and crease for imperfections have suddenly found a loose flap of skin, and then withdrawn entirely. Waiting.

_A way in, a way in, a way in._

A way in, because Staci will never have a Way Out.

He coughs on his own whimper, gags on the smell of his own urine when Jacob's hand returns to his face.

  
“Fear can be a very useful tool.” Jacob cocks his head slightly. “Fear is a natural part of life for all animals. It comes to us all, unasked for and so often unwelcome. Uncontrolled.”

Something hard and glinting flits behind Jacob's eyes, and his fingers press into the junction between Staci's jaw and neck. He leans in close, and the low, scratchy murmuring feels to Staci like some awful, twisted benediction.

  
“I don't ask that those under my command are fearless. I don't expect that they never feel terror.”

  
Three fingers wipe the tears from under Staci's eyes, firmly and deftly swab the mucus away from his lips, and Staci -

Staci retches in disgust at his own fluids, wonders how this calm, collected man can stand to wipe them from Staci's grotesque and gasping mouth like he's caring for a goddamned baby.

  
“I see their fear, when it comes to them.”

  
Jacob's head tilts as he leans back a little to observe Staci's relatively dry face.

Jacob's own face, lax and calm and horrifyingly open, misses nothing. Content to observe, to watch for anything that Staci may want to give up.

  
“Fear isn't the problem. Fear doesn't make a man weak.”

  
One of Jacob's scarred and pock-marked hands grabs the muddied clumps of hair from where they hang by Staci's eyes, pushes them up and over Staci's forehead – even folds the shorter ones back behind his ear and Staci can't even hope to stop the shrieking, broken-metal sound from where it spills out of him.

Jacob takes his chin, angles his face so that Staci can truly See, as though there was anything else in this inverted corner of the world that Staci would dare to rest his eyes on.

  
“Allowing fear to paralyze you; to take your hands and keep them from doing what must be done.” Jacob's hand slips down to brace the back of Staci's neck, and Staci wishes that he could swallow everything down into the darkness, swallow himself whole before anything else in this void unhinges its jaws.

  
“Allowing fear to govern your mind and body, to thrive unchecked – that is weakness.”

  
Jacob's fingers fall lower on his throat, tap gently at the softest part he finds there in a wild, staccato rhythm; in time with Staci's runaway pulse, because not even that belongs to Staci now.

  
“That?” he squeezes ever so slightly on those pulse points, lifts his hand to wipe away renewed tears.

  
Lifts his palm for Staci to see his shining fluids glistening there, and Staci wants to scream that he doesn't understand, even though the words would be more lie than anything else.

  
“That's not weakness. Not yet.”

  
Jacob wipes his hand carelessly on his shirt, stands and moves to retrieve something from Staci's peripheral vision.

  
“That's only fear, and fear can be overcome.”

  
When he returns to Staci's eyeline, Jacob is cradling something small in his hands.

  
“If you're strong enough.”

  
He reaches one hand out to check Staci's chin slightly to the right, rests his hand on the crown of Staci's head to indicate when the angle is just right. Tightens the strap holding it there.

And then his hands are opening slowly in front Staci, revealing what he had been cradling so close to himself. And for one, delirious moment before the Song fills his head, Staci imagines that Jacob will open his hands and all of his insides will come spilling out before Staci. A confession, a sermon.

Showing him what it looks like, what it smells like to be welcoming of fear.

“Show me that you're strong enough, Deputy Pratt.”


End file.
